Michael Foster

The Joy of Listening   Ambient Visions was founded on a very simple premise: sharing the music I had discovered in the early 90s with others who felt the same way I did about ambient, electronic, and new age music I had only recently come to understand. That idea didn’t appear overnight. It grew slowly, shaped by years of listening, searching, and—maybe most importantly—learning how to really hear music in a deeper way.  Before all of that, I was a Midwestern guy rooted firmly in pop and rock. From the moment I first heard The Beatles, I was hooked. That sound carried me through decades of listening, right up until my mid to late 30s when something shifted. But even before that shift, there were signs that my musical world was larger than I realized.  In my 20s, I had the good fortune of working in a record store. At the time, it just felt like a great job for someone who loved music. Looking back, it was an education that you simply can’t replicate today. Every day, boxes of new releases would arrive, and I had the chance—sometimes the responsibility—to open them up, put them on the turntable or CD player, and let them fill the store. That constant exposure mattered. Even though my tastes leaned heavily toward rock, I absorbed jazz records, classical pieces, and the occasional oddball album that didn’t quite fit anywhere.  There’s something physical about that kind of discovery that’s hard to explain unless you lived through it. The act of flipping through vinyl sleeves or scanning rows of CDs wasn’t just browsing—it was a kind of exploration. Album covers mattered. Liner notes mattered. Even the smell of the store, the faint mix of cardboard and plastic and dust, became part of the experience. You didn’t just hear music—you handled it, studied it, carried it home like a prize.  And yet, despite all of that exposure, I wasn’t ready—at least not yet—to fully embrace instrumental or ambient music. Those early years planted seeds, but they hadn’t sprouted. What they did give me was a sense that there was more out there than the Billboard Top 100. Even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I knew there were other paths.  Back then, discovery required effort. If you heard something on the radio or read about an album in a magazine, that was just the beginning. You had to go find it. That meant trips to record stores—sometimes multiple stores—hoping that someone had ordered a copy. In smaller Midwestern towns, that could be a challenge. Inventory leaned toward what was popular and what sold consistently. If you were looking for something outside the mainstream, you were often out of luck.  So you learned to dig. You checked import sections. You asked clerks. You special ordered albums and waited weeks for them to arrive. And when they did, there was a kind of satisfaction that came with it—a feeling that you had earned that music in a way that’s hard to replicate now. Still, there were limits. No matter how much digging you did locally, you were mostly reinforcing what you already knew. True discovery—real, eye-opening, perspective-shifting discovery—needed something more.  That something turned out to be the early Internet. The Internet I came to know in those days was a completely different world than what we have now. It felt like unexplored territory, a place where people gathered not to be sold something, but to share what they loved. There were no algorithms feeding you recommendations. There were message boards, primitive websites, email lists, and a sense that if you looked hard enough, you could find someone else out there who cared about the same obscure music you did.  Michael stocking 8-track tapes at the record store It was raw, a little chaotic, and incredibly exciting. For someone like me—who had spent nearly a quarter of a century immersed in rock, pop, and a bit of jazz—it opened doors I didn’t even know existed. Suddenly, I wasn’t limited by what my local store stocked. I could read about artists from across the world. I could connect with people who were listening to things I had never heard of. I could follow threads of conversation that led from one artist to another, and then another.  That’s when the shift really began. Everyone has their own story about how they found ambient, world, or electronic music. Mine started with a handful of albums that hit me at exactly the right time. Loreena McKennitt’s The Visit was one of them. It didn’t sound like anything I had grown up with—it felt ancient and modern at the same time. Then came Deep Forest’s self-titled album, blending global sounds with electronic textures in a way that felt completely new to me. Dead Can Dance’s Spiritchaser pushed that even further, creating a sound that seemed to exist outside of time.  Even revisiting something like Kate Bush’s The Dreaming became a revelation. The first listen was almost disorienting. It challenged everything I thought I knew about structure and melody. But with time—and repeated listens—it opened up into something extraordinary. That album, along with the others, taught me that music didn’t have to fit into familiar patterns to be meaningful. In fact, sometimes the most rewarding music was the kind that asked something of you.  Once that door opened, it didn’t close. The Internet, even in its early, clunky form, became a guide. It didn’t hand me everything, but it pointed me in the right direction. Three discoveries stand out as turning points: Musical Starstreams, a Windham Hill compilation called Path: An Ambient Journey, and a cassette copy of Steve Roach’s Dreamtime Return.  That last one was the moment everything clicked. Dreamtime Return, released in 1988, had been out there for years, waiting. When I finally heard it, it felt like stepping into another world. This wasn’t background music. It was immersive, expansive, and deeply emotional in a way I hadn’t experienced before. It didn’t demand attention in the way rock music does—it invited you in, slowly, patiently, and completely.  At the same time, Path: An Ambient Journey served as a kind of roadmap, introducing me to artists and sounds that expanded my understanding even further. And Musical Starstreams—especially once it began streaming online in the late 90s—became a regular source of discovery, offering carefully curated sets that felt like they were designed for listeners just like me.  By that point, the dam had burst. I was no longer just listening—I was searching. Actively, intentionally, and with a sense of purpose. And somewhere along the way, something else surfaced: the desire to share.  That instinct had been there all along, shaped by my years in the record store. Back then, sharing meant putting on a record and watching how people reacted. Now, the Internet offered a new way to do that. But as I explored, I noticed something: the kinds of music I was discovering weren’t being represented very well online. Information was scattered. Artists were hard to find. There wasn’t a central place where someone could go to explore ambient and electronic music in a meaningful way.  So I decided to try and create one. In 1998, on GeoCities, Ambient Visions was born. It was simple by today’s standards—basic pages, limited design, and none of the polish we’ve come to expect—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the idea behind it: becoming a beacon for others who were searching, just like I had been.  Before long, that small beginning grew into something more. I wanted it to have a real presence, a place that felt permanent. That’s when the decision was made to secure the Ambient Visions domain and continue building from there.  Through it all, one thing remained constant: the joy of listening. That joy isn’t just about hearing something new. It’s about the process—the search, the discovery, the moment when a piece of music connects with you in a way you didn’t expect. It’s about those albums that don’t sit at the top of the charts, the ones you have to work a little harder to find, and how much more meaningful they feel because of that effort.  In many ways, the tools have changed. Discovery is faster now. Access is easier. But the core experience—the feeling of finding something that resonates with you on a deeper level—hasn’t changed at all.  For me, that’s what Ambient Visions has always been about. Not just the music itself, but the journey to find it, understand it, and share it.It all comes back to the joy of listening. And for me, that will never change. What began as a simple collection of pages has continued to evolve, but the original idea remains unchanged. What began as a simple collection of pages has continued to evolve, but the original idea remains unchanged. I hope that wherever your own musical path takes you, that same sense of discovery—and that same quiet excitement—stays with you every step of the way.